Time
by WritingIsTheMostFun
Summary: Sherlock finally returns to Baker Street. Post-TRF.


**A/N: Greetings and salutations. So this is my first piece of Johnlock and I actually wrote it for my dear angel friend Lou. She wanted a Post-Reichenbach reunion and who doesn't love those? So yeah, happy reading!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

* * *

John wasn't sure whether seconds, minutes, or hours had passed since he heard the only two words that could have possibly stunned him into silence, after all he's been through.

They were the only two words that he'd dreamt about hearing for, what, three years? For three years, John had imagined every possible scenario in which he walked through the door of their flat to find Sherlock perched in his chair, demanding a pen and glancing at John in annoyance when he was told that John had been out at the surgery for the past several hours.

Or perhaps, Sherlock would materialize beside John in the kitchen while he made tea, wondering why John only had one mug out. He would undoubtedly scoff at John's look of surprise before turning back the fridge where he was storing yet another body part.

Yes, John had imagined these things and more over the past three years. But John's imagination, extensive as it is, did nothing to prepare him for the reality that was Sherlock Holmes, his flatmate, best friend, and so many other things that were utterly indescribable to him, standing in the doorway of their flat. For what seemed like an eternity, John simply stood there, staring at Sherlock, drinking in his appearance to compensate for all that he's missed.

As John's gaze roamed over Sherlock from head to toe, his doctor's mentality noted that, while Sherlock had lost weight, which shouldn't have been possible at all due to his already lithe figure, he didn't look unhealthy. If anything, from the shadows under his eyes and the faintest of lines around his mouth and forehead, he just looked tired. While John couldn't pretend to know what Sherlock had been up to for the past few years, it had certainly taken its toll on the taller man, no matter how much he would undoubtedly object to such a notion.

But, despite all of that, he was still Sherlock. Sociopathic, enigmatic, infuriating, perfect, solid, and _alive_ Sherlock. And it was that thought that propelled John out of his daze and into punching Sherlock square in the jaw.

The force of his punch surprised them both, sending Sherlock a step or two back. He miraculously maintained his balance well enough to steady John when he stumbled forward. In that moment, with Sherlock's arms around John, their eyes said more than their words ever could.

_Why did you leave me? Why didn't you tell me? You were **dead **and I was forced to bury you. Do you have any idea how broken I've been?_

_I'm sorry. I'm here now. It was unfair to put you through this but it was necessary. Forgive me. Please._

But, for all that they could say, wanted to say, only two words were whispered into the deafening silence.

"You're back."

Sherlock's smile, unnoticed as it would have been to anyone else, made John's heart soar.

He didn't speak as John's hands came up to softly cup his face, as though he were afraid that Sherlock was a mere wisp of his imagination. He stroked those impossible cheekbones, the brow that was almost always furrowed in concentration. Those perfect lips that were more often fixed in a frown instead of a rare smile. John's fingertips ghosted over the ears that could supposedly hear unvoiced thoughts and curled into the hair that was constantly ruffled in frustration. They traveled down to the neck that was constantly exposed by an unbuttoned shirt or hidden away by the ever-present blue scarf. As John's hands made their journey, his eyes never left Sherlock's.

Deep blue clung to iridescent gray as though, with one blink, they could disappear again. Possibly forever. When John finally broke the silence, it was more for confirmation that this was real, rather than for a serious answer.

"So you're back for good, then?"

"Of course, John. Don't be deliberately obtuse. It doesn't suit you." Sherlock's words, while they might have earned him a mild glare in the past, brought a fond smile to John's lips.

"Right. Well, that's - that's good then. Very good." John absently patted the lapel of Sherlock's coat, suddenly unable to maintain eye contact as he struggled with what to do next. While life with Sherlock was never predictable, the fact that he was back and standing in front of John was something that he found himself remarkably unprepared for.

"John," the sound of his name brought John back to the present. He nearly started at the feel of Sherlock's fingers, unexpectedly warm, gently taking his chin and tilting his face upwards to meet Sherlock's gaze once again. "Stop thinking, it's distracting."

Before John could respond to the familiar complaint, Sherlock's lips were upon his.

The kiss was just as John remembered when it happened for the first time. The firm yet gentle press of warm lips against his own. The gentle slide of tongues against each other was slow and deliberate, tasting and relearning all that had been unwillingly forgotten in the past three years. Teeth nipped and lips sucked, breaths were exchanged. The smell of foreign chemicals, rosin, and the sweet yet spicy scent that all combined to make up Sherlock filled John's nostrils. John inhaled greedily, letting Sherlock completely overwhelm all of his senses.

Christ, how long had John refused to let himself remember this? How many times did John have to stop himself from going into his own mind's store of memories and reliving every moment he'd shared with Sherlock? Too long. Far too long, John decided.

John let his hands roam, memorizing every fibre of Sherlock's coat. It felt as it always did. The wool was soft from years of use, almost molding to Sherlock's chest from being constantly worn. John's fingers slipped beneath Sherlock's coat, pressing against the thin shirt that separated their skin. John sighed into the kiss as his hands mapped out Sherlock's torso, glad that he was finally, _finally, _able to do this again. Sherlock's hands weren't idle either, already beneath John's jumper and twisting into his shirt to bring them impossibly closer to one another.

John didn't realize that Sherlock had been maneuvering them anywhere until the lighting suddenly changed. John pulled back and saw that Sherlock had walked them into his bedroom - which eventually became their bedroom, and then simply _the _bedroom.

When he turned back, John could see the blatant uncertainty across Sherlock's face. Was he being too forward? After all, he'd only just walked back into John's life not twenty minutes ago. Now, here he was, asking for more. Always asking for more. And, as usual, John couldn't say no, even if he wanted to. Oh, he was still quite upset with Sherlock but for now...for right now, they both needed this.

John reached for Sherlock's coat, sliding it off of his shoulders where it pooled on the ground. He never broke eye contact as be began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, saying all that he could with his actions instead.

Sherlock quickly regained use of his own motor skills. The slight shock at John's actions was evident in his eyes.

They removed each other's clothes slowly and deliberately. Each new bit of exposed skin was caressed with fingers and lips with little more than shaky breaths in between. Once they were finally naked, the air in the room shifted. Neither made a move, simply taking shallow breaths as they studied each other.

John couldn't help the surge of arousal that came with seeing Sherlock in front of him. He was nothing but arms and legs and smooth skin that bore more scars than before he left. But even those, some faint and pink, some angry and looked to be as recent as a few weeks old, he was still the most beautiful man that John had ever seen.

Sherlock did his own share of staring, taking in every minute detail about John's appearance that had changed over the past three years. Each new change and everything that remained the same was carefully filed away. Every old piece of information that Sherlock found himself revisiting over the years was immediately discarded in the wake of John standing before him.

Sherlock closed the last bit of distance between them, holding John's gaze as he leaned in to kiss him. Neither trusted themselves to speak and soon they didn't have to. Where their previous kisses were tender and sweet, this one was hot, needy, and perhaps a little desperate. Without ending the kiss, Sherlock urged John backwards until he sat on the bed, pulling Sherlock down on top of him. Sherlock settled easily between his legs, groaning into John's mouths as their erections slid against each other.

John moaned as Sherlock released his lips, in favor of trailing his lips down John's neck to suck lightly on his clavicle before continuing down to his chest. Sherlock alternated between lightly nipping at random points, enjoying each gasp and hiss from John. He made sure to elicit as many low moans form John as possible when he soothed the abused skin with his tongue. When Sherlock moved to John's nipples, John's hands flew to his hair, holding him in place as one sensitive nub was sucked between Sherlock's lips. He could feel Sherlock smirk around his nipple as he failed to hold back the breathy moans that tumbled past his lips while Sherlock licked and sucked in earnest.

The same attention was paid to the other nipple and by the time Sherlock pulled back to admire his handiwork, John looked absolutely _wrecked. _His short hair was a mess from running his hands through it. His chest was littered tiny red marks, his nipples stood out from his flushed skin, still wet from Sherlock's mouth. As his eyes traveled lower before settling on John's cock, rosy and leaking against his stomach. Sherlock curled his fingers around it, gently squeezing before running his thumb along the head, smearing the precome over the rest of his length.

"Sh-Sherlock," John gasped. It was the first word said between them since they entered the room and Sherlock found he didn't mind in the least.

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed into John's neck. He sounded far too amused for someone who was just as aroused as John was.

"Please," he panted. "Stop teasing, I-I can't..."

Sherlock groaned into John's neck upon hearing John's plea. He wouldn't hold out much longer and it simply wouldn't do for this to end before it really begun. With one last nip to John's pulse point, Sherlock reluctantly tore himself away from the bed to fetch the lube and condoms from the dresser, making a mental note to move them to the nightstand.

When he turned back around, his breath caught in his throat. There was John, _his _John, spread out on the bed, naked, flushed, and looking utterly debauched. But no, it wasn't just the erotic sight of John, ready and waiting for him, his tan skin decorated with bite marks and slowly forming hickeys, nor was it the sight of his erection, glistening with precome and laying heavily on his stomach, that made Sherlock pause. It was the look in those oh-so-expressive eyes that pinned Sherlock in place.

John had the habit of wearing his every emotion plainly across his face for the world to see, sometimes to his own detriment. But now, Sherlock was beyond grateful for John's endearing transparency. The look on his face was one of pure, unwavering love. It was something that Sherlock didn't know he so desperately craved until Doctor John Hamish Watson came limping into his life. And now that Sherlock has it, he had no plans of letting it slip through his fingers for a second time.

"Sherlock?" John's voice snapped him out of his momentary lapse. "Everything all right?" Sherlock couldn't help but smile softly at John's apparent concern as he kneeled on the bed.

"Fine," he said against John's lips. "Everything is perfectly fine."

John smiled and drew Sherlock into a lazy kiss, moaning lowly when one slick finger circled his entrance before pushing in. Sherlock took his time in preparing John, swallowing each moan as another finger was added, reveling in the truly obscene sounds that John made. Soon enough, Sherlock was working John open with three fingers, eliciting new gasps and groans from John with each gentle pass over his prostate.

"Sherlock, _please_," John begged.

"Yes, John? Tell me what you want," Sherlock never removed his fingers. Instead, he switched to slow and shallow thrusts as he studied John's flushed face and tightly shut eyes.

"John, look at me." With effort, John peeled his eyes open, the deep blue almost completely hidden by the black of his lust-blown pupils.

"I want to feel you," he gasped. "Please, Sherlock, I need to feel you."

Instead of answering, Sherlock once again claimed John's swollen lips in a bruising kiss while quickly rolling on a condom and slicking himself up with more lubricant. Sherlock pulled back from John's lips with a lewd smack and positioned himself. John's eyes were clenched shut again with his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he not so subtly tried to push himself onto Sherlock's cock, which was just teasing his entrance.

"John," Sherlock whispered.

"Mnh."

"John, I want you to look at me," Sherlock urged. "You want to feel me but I want to see you."

John pried his eyes open yet again. Fond exasperation, annoyance, arousal, and love all danced within his gaze.

"I should have remembered that you can be utterly impossible in bed."

"Yes, well, anything else would be utterly dull. You know that."

"All too well, I'm afraid." John shifted his hips, pressing more insistently against the head of Sherlock's cock. "Well, go on then. You have my undivided attention, as always."

Sherlock quirked his lips. "You're turning out to be quite the demanding lover, Doctor Watson."

"That makes two of us, Mister Holmes."

In response, Sherlock eased into John, watching every slight shift of John's expression as he slowly filled him. It was a marvel and one that he would never tire of. The minute widening of John's eyes, the way his eyelashes shuddered as he struggled to maintain eye contact with Sherlock, the way his lips formed an unconscious 'o' once Sherlock was completely buried within him.

Sherlock used every ounce of his ironclad will to prevent himself from pulling out and roughly slamming back into John's welcoming body as he waited for his partner to adjust. It had been three years, after all. He rested his head in the juncture of John's shoulder and neck, darting his tongue out to taste the salty skin there, listening to the shallow breaths of the man beneath him.

Sherlock catalogued the way that John seemed to cling to him with his entire being, with his muscles involuntarily clenching around him, the way his nails dug into his back, the slight huff of breath that blew through Sherlock's hair, the way he allowed Sherlock to fit so perfectly between his thighs, hot and damp against Sherlock's hips. It was all so perfect. John was perfect.

Finally, _finally, _John canted his hips, not trusting his voice to tell Sherlock to move. Sherlock pulled out slowly, almost too slowly, as he drew back to rest his forehead against John's. He thrust forward, inhaling John's sigh while setting a languid pace. John's fingertips grazed Sherlock's back, feeling the small indentations that his nails left. They shared the same breaths and the only other sound in the room was the slick rub of skin against skin and the occasional gasp as Sherlock grazed John's prostate.

It was slow, sweet, hot, too much, and not nearly enough all at once. John's hand traveled between their bodies, and was soon joined by Sherlock's. Together, they pumped John's length, slippery with precome and sweat, while John dipped his head to nibble at a particularly sensitive spot on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's answering groan had John thrusting into their hands in earnest while Sherlock hit John's prostate with unerring accuracy.

John knew that he wouldn't last much longer and the speed with which Sherlock was driving into him made it clear that his lover wasn't far behind. John used his free hand to drag Sherlock down into another kiss that was more a frantic exchange of breaths, clumsily colliding tongues than anything else. Three sure strokes later, with Sherlock's hand warm and secure around his, John tore his lips away from Sherlock's and came hard between their chests with a near silent scream.

Sherlock came almost immediately afterwards with John's name tumbling past his lips, thrown almost violently over the edge at the sight of his lover's head thrown back, covered in a sheen of sweat and a full body flush. Sherlock vaguely noted that that particular memory would have its own wing in his Mind Palace, before he he promptly passed out half on top of an already dozing John.

* * *

When John awoke, he found that Sherlock wasn't beside him, though the bed was still warm. As he shifted to a sitting position, he winced at the soreness in his muscles. Were it not for the physical reminder, and the sheet that had been draped over him, John might have been inclined to believe that he'd imagined the entire encounter. It wouldn't have been the first time, he mused.

God. Even after recent turn of events, John still couldn't get over the fact that it had been three, long and miserable years. He'd tried to force himself to stop keeping track of the time but it seemed as though his subconscious was determined to hold on to the memory of the man who made his life worth living again.

Sherlock brought the adrenaline, thrill, and excitement that John craved back into his life. It was their own ridiculous brand of chaotic order that kept John sane after he'd already resigned himself to living out the rest of his existence in that sad little bedsit. But it was that same thrill that prompted Sherlock to fake his own death.

Is John really willing to face that again? Would he be able to handle such devastation for a second time?

John sighed and let his head fall into his hands. In all of the ways that he'd imagined their reunion, he'd never gotten as far as thinking about the aftermath. About how they would go from here. Was there anywhere to go from here?

Before John could answer that question, his train of thought was interrupted by the smell of tea. He lifted his head to find Sherlock holding out a mug to him, while casually sipping from his own.

"You were thinking too much. It was distracting," Sherlock said to John's unanswered question.

John accepted the mug with a smile of thanks and shifted over to allow Sherlock room to sit on the bed.

"I suppose you'll want to talk about this," Sherlock murmured from over the rim of his mug.

John shrugged, taking a sip of his own tea. It was exactly how he liked it.

"Eventually, but not right now." From the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock look over at him in surprise.

"We'll definitely talk and it won't be enjoyable," he said, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "I'll say things that you'll think are idiotic and you'll say things that infuriate me. We'll sort it all out and it will all be fine. But at this moment, I just want to enjoy being with you. After all, we have a lot of time to make up for."

"That seems like an...acceptable course of action." Sherlock had fully expected that John would immediately demand an explanation once he wasn't so drained from their earlier activities. Even from the kitchen, Sherlock could practically feel the confusion and anxiety radiating off of John in waves.

But John was right. Talking could wait, now that they had all the time in the world.

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**A/N: And there you have it, folks. This actually took me forever to write (as in, I wrote it out two months ago but while I was typing it out, I kept changing things). But, as you can see, I've finally finished it. So don't be afraid to tell me what you think! I don't know if I'll be writing any more Johnlock any time soon (since I'm still working on other things), but I'd love to hear your thoughts for future reference. Thanks for reading!**


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